Waiting
by Samixa
Summary: WARNING: bucket-loads of angst and character deaths. This is my imagining of how it all ends for House and Wilson. "Their motorcycle trip across the country ends when Wilson is too exhausted to go on..."


**Waiting**

1.

Their motorcycle trip across the country ends when Wilson is too exhausted to go on.

They're in the middle of nowhere; a half-forgotten motel on the state border where the dust lay half an inch thick on most surfaces and the sheets were yellowed with age and neglect. That morning Wilson sleeps straight through his alarm and House drives his motorcycle to the nearest town and rents a car. He leaves the bike up an alley, nestled between two dumpsters and is puzzled later when he feels that he's left a part of himself behind. That afternoon they pile their meagre belongings in the trunk of the car and head for what they both know is the finish line.

They don't talk about it – after nearly twenty years they've so far managed to avoid talking about those big issuesthat litter their friendship like standing stones, casting their shadows across every conversation. Now is not the time to start dismantling those ancient relics.

2.

The hospice is cheap, but welcoming. They had already decided not to go to a hospital when the time came; they both knew that all a hospital would provide was an illusion, a stop-gap and Wilson had had too much experience of that with his own patients to want it for himself. Wilson's room is small, the wide window looking out onto the hospice's gardens, bursting with lush-green life in the summer sun and House loses track of the days as they wait.

He doesn't talk to the staff much, but as the days pass by they share the occasional nod of recognition as he paces the corridors or snoops on the other residents. But these sick people are boring, there are no puzzles to solve here.

The doctor who covers the night-shift often gives him a curious, probing look as he diligently waits by Wilson's bedside. House is pretty sure she recognises him – from a conference or a photo in a journal article maybe – but she doesn't question the false name he's given her and never stops House from administering Wilson's pain meds himself.

3.

"House, promise me."

House twists Wilson's watch round and round in his hands. He can feel the kink in the leather strap from where the buckle has always rested, and slips it on over his own wrist. It's a little too tight for him, but it means he doesn't need to buckle it in a new hole.

He catches Wilson's gaze and nods.

4.

It's September when House moves into the cabin by the lake. The place hadn't been lived in for a while - dust sheets covering the furniture and all the blinds drawn. It's peaceful, too peaceful, so House goes digging. It's not long before he finds an old packing box in the closet under the stairs, stuffed full of tokens from the days the Wilson family spent their summers at the cabin. It's not much; some spare blankets, a lantern and box of matches, a few water pistols, a torn baseball mitt. At the bottom of the box, nestled between some old tourist guides of the area, House finds an envelope of polaroids. Three scruffy boys of varying heights grin up at him from the faded film.

He stares at the photos for a long time, but doesn't find the answers he needs.

5.

The weeks pass by. He enjoys living at the cabin, settling into a comfortable routine. He hardly thinks about medicine at all, though puzzles do still present themselves to him from time to time; a woman standing in front of him in the grocery queue with an odd tilt to her neck, a kid with an unselfconscious twitch at the gas station. But the puzzles don't consume him as much as they used to, he doesn't _need_ to know now.

He calls Cuddy sometimes but never speaks, he just enjoys hearing her exasperation on the other end of the line at what she thinks is another prank call.

6.

He does his best to uphold his promise to Wilson, really he does. But one night he has a little too much to drink, perhaps a few vicodin too many, and the world begins to unwind at the seams again. But whereas the last time, on that dark Christmas Eve, it was all about self-destruction - about clocking out with a big _fuck you_ to Tritter and the world - this time its warm, like the world's turned molten.

The glow at the edge of his vision is Wilson-coloured, all gold-flecked-tawny-caramel and he can _feel _Wilson there.

7.

It's a week before the neighbour across the lake tries the cabin door, another day before he goes to the cops and two days after that when the cops get the warrant to enter the cabin.

He's just a tramp, but the neighbour still feels the poor guy deserves some kind of send-off. It's just the neighbour and the gravedigger at the small ceremony. They bury him in the clothes he was wearing - an old McGill sweater a few sizes too small. The neighbour had found a wallet a few days earlier, he's surprised to find an ID card listing the dead man as Greg Wilson. He remembers the Wilsons vaguely back when they still visited the lake every summer. The middle son he recalls went off the rails a bit, but he can't remember if any of the boy's had been called Greg.

His wife - god bless that woman, she can lay her hand on anything, he thinks - locates Mr and Mrs Wilson's phone number in an old address book, and he calls them up that evening.

No, they say. There's no Greg Wilson in the family, it must be a coincidence.

They put Greg Wilson on the headstone anyway, though they're pretty sure it's an alias when the police checks come up empty. The guy was probably just a no-good drifter squatting in the empty shack.


End file.
